We discovered a mutual love of many restaurants and bars, and realized we’d been daily patrons of the same obscure coffeehouse for nearly two years. Once that peculiar shock wore off, we agreed hands down that autumn was the best season in Boston. Those fools who loved springtime were kidding themselves—Boston in the spring was cold and wet and muddy, save for the odd week or two of perfection around the end of May.
I mentioned an affection forThe Avengers,Iron Man, and the firstTransformers, and Matthew brought up the origins of his siblings’ comic-book-inspired nicknames. They referred to Sam as Tony Stark but never Iron Man—brilliant but a womanizing manwhore in the business of collecting obsessive-compulsive tendencies—and I laughed so hard my drink sprayed out my nose.
We both admitted feeling like we’d accomplished a barrelful of nothing since college, and insisted the other was insane to think so, but that didn’t stop us from comparing ourselves to others in our fields. I couldn’t understand how he saw his work as anything short of extraordinary—especially after the dissertation I got on New Orleans architecture—and he argued that point right back to me until we accepted each other’s compliments.
Matthew divulged a small addiction to running, and for him that was a gateway to biking and swimming, and occasionally doing all three for about one hundred and forty miles.
I told him about my treats: baked goods of all varieties, shoes, and disgustingly expensive lacy things. I didn’t offer explanation other than saying the shoes and the lingerie made me feel stronger, more capable when everything was complicated, and people would be happier if they ate more cake. He feigned disbelief when I mentioned the lacy things, demanding proof even though he had watched me dress and knew plenty about my undies, and I might have slipped my panties into his pocket on my way back from the ladies’ room.
Matthew inquired about my fondness for velvet pillows, and I confessed an obsession with wandering through farmers’ markets and random little shops, and that my favorite place in the area was Cape Cod. I loved walking along the shore, gazing out over the Atlantic, and feeling like I was teetering over the edge of the earth and absolutely, totally free from everything else in the world, where no one expected anything from me, and I could justbe.We realized we frequented the same beaches, and quite possibly the same quiet cove at the same time, but never noticed each other until I went ass over elbow down the stairs at Saint Cosmas.
When Matthew’s eyes flashed with vulnerability, I shifted closer, and he told me about the hot July day twenty-two years ago when he and his siblings found their pregnant mother on the floor of her bedroom, clutching her belly while blood pooled around her. The memories poured out, and my heart broke for the little boy who watched his mother die.
A heaviness settled between us, and before the waiter could present the dessert menus, I held up a hand and said, “One of everything, and another round.”
We sampled the crème brulee, flourless chocolate cake, and pain perdu, and I set the pecan pie aside for the morning. My position on pie for breakfast brought him to the origin of his family’s famous butternut squash pie recipe—his mother substituted squash after he and Patrick climbed the roof of their childhood home for a pumpkin-smashing experiment—and that it was the only thing Shannon was allowed to cook, ever.
As a transplant to New England, that was a new one for me, and I filed it away with the frappes and fluffernutters, and whoopee pies and Indian pudding.
With a fresh sazerac in hand, Matthew leaned forward and said, “I actually need to hear this from you, Lauren. I need to understand why you stopped talking to me because I don’t. I don’t understand any of it.”
Licking chocolate from the fork’s tines, I shrugged. “I’ve had a really hectic few weeks.”
My words sounded flimsy and hollow, and while we both knew Iwasbusy, we also knew there was more to the story.
He folded his arms on the table, his hands circling the tumbler, and I watched his fingertips as they tapped the glass. I liked his hands. Long fingers, light freckles all over, and a dusting of hair near his wrist. His watch was the size of a puppy’s head, but on him, it was almost proportional.
“And you thought I wouldn’t want to hear about that?”
“I didn’t know what you wanted,” I said.
Eyebrow lifted, Matthew leveled me with a sharp look. “Yes, you did.”
Instead of trying to fill the most awkward silence in the history of humanity with empty babble that certainly wouldn’t make him happy, I finished the crème brulee. He signaled for the check, and snatched it up when I reached across the table.
“You’re a caveman,” I murmured.
“You’re bossy.”
He didn’t look up when he said it, and it wasn’t the same loving quip without his usual smirk and sarcastic tone.
Is this what I’ve been doing all this time? Is this what it feels like to be shut out and pushed away?
The return trip to the hotel was quiet, and he didn’t reach for me. The French Quarter was vibrant and pulsating, and I wanted more than anything to feel that way with Matthew right now, to banish the prickly energy between us. He stopped at the corner of Bourbon Street, gesturing to lively venues boasting jazz and bourbon, voodoo and hurricanes, and asked, “Will rum bring you back to me? Or is it just tequila?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I sighed and wrapped my scarf around my shoulders. Armor. The thin, flowery fabric was the best shield I had, and I needed it to protect me right now.
“Tell me why. That’s all I want.”
Partiers spilled onto the streets, laughing and singing, and I shrugged. “The past two weeks have been…awful. I mean, I’ve learned things and met people, but awful. It’s been ridiculous and shameful and appalling how much I’ve missed you. We had an incredible weekend, and that should’ve been the end of it. But I can’t get you out of my head. Okay? Was that what you wanted?”
“Yeah,” he said, brushing my hair over my shoulder. “Keep going.”
“I never sleep and all of this travel is kicking my ass. And it’s really obvious I only have half a clue of what I’ve gotten myself into with opening this school. I’m pretty sure I’m failing at life.”
“And if you’d mentioned any of that to me, I would’ve told you it was bullshit. I would’ve said dirty things over the phone to make you feel better because I missed you too and I want to solve these things for you.”
“Matthew,” I laughed impatiently. “I can’t find room in my life to breathe right now. I thought if I kept my distance, if I only talked about the project…I thought it would be easier.”
